


Don't Even Take This Bet

by shinykari (meinterrupted)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Background Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton makes poor -life- choices, Clint Barton makes poor fashion choices, Community: trope_bingo, First Date, M/M, luckily he has Kate and Natasha around to do his thinking for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinterrupted/pseuds/shinykari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't like cops, even if they do have really nice eyes and a fantastic smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Even Take This Bet

**Author's Note:**

> Yet _another_ fill for the AU: Cop/Detective square of my Trope Bingo card, as requested by uberniftacular. Title and epigraph from Fall Out Boy's "A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Touch Me Please." Many thanks to Beena, Sin, Dragon, Karen, and the other amazing ladies and gents in cc_feelschat for being awesome, and making this story 10x better. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> While I have categorized this under 616/Hawkeye, it's an AU that uses mostly movie characterization.

_I don't blame you for being you / But you can't blame me for hating it / So say what are you waiting for?_

\--

"What're they looking at?" Kate asked from behind him, steadying herself with a hand on Clint's arm as she peered over his shoulder.

"Dead guy," Natasha answered, sounding far too chipper for a 3am conversation that revolved around a dead body. "That's the coroner's van. And I think recognize one of the detectives; he's homicide."

"Ooh, _murder_ ," Kate breathed.

"Absolutely not, Katie-Kate, you are not going to go check out a crime scene in the middle of the night," Clint said, turning around to pin Kate with a fierce gaze.

She just rolled her eyes. "Oh, puh-leez. I'm not _that_ interested. Besides, it's cold out there, and I know how this works; they're going to come in here to talk to us." She grinned and bounced on the balls of her feet. "I'll make coffee. Maybe one of the cops will be cute."

Before Clint could object, she was already half-way across the empty bar, nimbly dodging tables in the dim light. "Wait...what just happened?"

"Your protégé is planning on flirting with someone she doesn't know; I think that's a good sign, don't you?" Natasha said, patting his arm.

"Well, yeah, until one of them notices all the not-exactly-legal weaponry she has strapped to her," Clint muttered, following her toward the back. "And starts asking where she got it, and why a trust-fund baby is hanging out at a shitty bar in Bed-Stuy--"

"Because she's a legal adult and she's allowed to make those decisions for herself, and you people are better than the family I've got," Kate interrupted, her eyes narrowed at Clint. "Calm down, Hawkeye, I'm not going to spill your secrets."

"Yeah, yeah, Hawkeye," Clint said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. "Well, pour me a cup of that stuff, and seriously, if you didn't make it extra strong--"

"You will drink my coffee and you will like it," Kate said, "or I won't let you have any, and then you'll fall asleep during your interrogation."

"It's only an interrogation if you're the one they suspect," Natasha pointed out. "Otherwise it's an interview."

"Still feels like an interrogation," Clint muttered.

Natasha and Kate rolled their eyes at him, and Clint took a long drink of the too-hot coffee, sputtering as it burned his tongue. While he swore and the women laughed, the bell over the door jingled and someone announced themselves as NYPD. "Come in," Natasha answered, her voice flat despite the smirk still on her face.

The men who approached them didn't have the same 'cop look' Clint had become accustomed to in his many run-ins with the law. The bald one smiled tiredly at them, his dark eyes warm behind his wire-framed glasses. His shirt was rumpled under his trench coat, and his tie was loose around his neck. "NYPD," he said, "just wanted to ask you a few questions."

Clint nodded. "Coffee?"

"Dear god yes," the bald cop answered, longing plain in his voice. "Coulson, you want some?"

"Definitely," the other detective, Coulson, answered. Clint poured them both a cup and passed them over, getting a good look at Coulson in the process. He wasn't overly tall, just an inch or so taller than Clint, with a receding hairline and crows-feet around his blue eyes. Those eyes pinned Clint with an assessing look, and for some reason, Clint felt split open, his every secret on display. "I'm detective Coulson," he said, his gaze not wavering from Clint's, "and this is my partner Detective Sitwell. We're investigating a death in the area."

"Yeah, we saw the flashing lights," Kate said, her tone hard. Coulson turned to look at her, and Clint let out a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "What do you want to know?"

The bald detective, Sitwell, pulled out a small memo pad. "First, we need your names. Ma'am?"

"Kate Bishop--Katherine," she said, tapping her finger on the paper, "with a K, thanks."

Sitwell smiled. "Of course."

He turned to Clint, who flicked his eyes to Natasha. She simple arched an eyebrow at him, and he sighed. "Clint Barton."

Sitwell nodded and wrote it down. "Ma'am?" he asked, turning to Natasha.

"Natasha Romanoff," she said, her words clipped, no trace of her native accent.

"So, did any of you see anything unusual tonight?"

The questioning went about as Clint had expected--a lot of questions about the victim, a few about the neighborhood, and one rather pointed one when Sitwell worked out who Kate's father was that provoked a vehemently negative reaction from her. They asked about the bar's security system, and whether they had surveillance that might have caught anything.

Too used to hiding things from the police, Clint lied. "No, no cameras."

Coulson cocked his head to the side. "There's a lot of crime in this area. Do you trust your neighbors?"

Clint shrugged. "We take care of each other around here."

Coulson's expression was flat, but his eyes were sharp. "I see," he murmured. "Well, if you remember anything else," he said, glancing over to Sitwell and closing his notepad, "feel free to call us." Sitwell finished the last of his coffee while Coulson handed a business card to Clint.

Clint took the card with a tight smile, fingers brushing the detective's. "Of course," he said. "Anything we can do to help the NYPD." Coulson's arched eyebrow made it clear he didn't believe a word Clint had just said, but he didn't object as Clint ushered them to the door with his bartender smile, and locked it behind them.

"Dude, Clint, why did you lie?" Kate asked as soon as he came back to the bar.

"Habit," Clint answered, pulling out a bottle of Nat's favorite vodka and three shot glasses. "I don't like cops. They make me nervous."

"Especially when you have a crush on one of them," Natasha said, smirking.

Clint wrinkled his nose as he poured all three of them a shot of vodka. "I do not."

"Oh please," Kate chimed in. "You looked like someone punched you in the gut when you were talking to the one guy." She reached for one of the shot glasses. "Barton's got a boyfriend," she sing-songed.

"I don't like cops, even if they are good-looking," he muttered, raising his glass.

The three of them downed the liquor, Clint and Kate grimacing at the burn while Natasha's expression didn't change. "You should tell them about the surveillance camera, Clint," Natasha said. "It looks out across the street."

"That would involve either going down to the police station--which, by the way, has never worked out in my favor," Clint said as he poured another round of shots, "or calling Detective Coulson--"

"You remember his name!" Kate crowed.

"Shut it, Katie," he said, shooting her a death-glare. She was, naturally, completely unaffected. "I'm not doing it."

Natasha picked up her vodka. "You know that if the guy gets away, and hurts someone else, you'll never forgive yourself." Clint grimaced, but didn't disagree. "The cute detective is just a bonus," she added with a smirk.

"Fine," Clint muttered, avoiding both of their gazes. "Tomorrow I'll call Barnes, see if he can work the early shift, and I'll go down to the police station, bring him the tape."

"And the DVD from the _good_ camera," Kate said.

"And the DVD from the good camera," Clint repeated dutifully, rolling his eyes.

She grinned. "To cute cops and Clint not fucking this one up."

Natasha laughed and tilted her glass toward Kate's. "Wishful thinking, but I'll drink to that."

"I hate you both," Clint said before downing his drink.

\--

Clint rubbed his hands together to warm them as he stood on the steps outside the 81st precinct building. Bucky had been more than happy for the extra hours, since Steve's last art show hadn't gone as well as they'd hoped ("it's the economy, stupid," he'd said) so Clint had no excuse not to go talk to the detective. But just being this close to a police station was making his palms itch as his well-honed sense of self-preservation screamed at him to make a run for it.

"Fuck this shit," he muttered to himself and steeled his nerves. "Not about you, Barton. Get over yourself." With that thought firmly in the front of his mind, he strode up the steps and into the building. "I'm here to see Detective Coulson," he told the officer at the front desk, who directed him with a disinterested wave of his hand.

It took another ten minutes of aimless wandering until someone took pity on Clint and directed in toward Homicide. Coulson was on the phone when Clint got to his desk, the handset cradled between his ear and shoulder. He held up a hand to stop Clint from talking. "Yes, of course, Chief, I understand. Thank you." A pause, then, "And you still owe me a beer, Nick, don't try to wriggle out of it." He laughed and said his good-byes before hanging up. "Sorry about that," he said, standing and offering a hand to Clint. "Gotta please the brass."

"Right," Clint said, as he settled into the chair Coulson indicated.

"So," Coulson said, steepling his fingers and fixing Clint with his piercing stare, "what brings you down to the station, Mr. Barton?"

Clint glanced down, rubbing his hands together nervously. "Listen, Detective, I might have not been entirely truthful last night."

Coulson cocked his head to the side, but didn't look surprised. "How so?"

"We have, um, a camera. At the bar," he added, feeling sheepish.

"And you chose to hide this information from us, why, exactly?" His voice was perfectly even, no hint of accusation, but Clint wasn't fooled.

He rubbed the back of his neck and avoided Coulson's piercing blue gaze. "I haven't had the best history with the police. Lying to you guys is sort of habit by now."

Coulson nodded, lips thinned with displeasure. "Were you protecting someone? Your girlfriend? Both of them?"

"I don't have a girlfriend," he answered automatically, then grimaced at the small smile on Coulson's face. "Tasha's my partner. Business partner. And Kate, well, I keep trying to get rid of her, but she grows on you. Kind of like mold," he added, trying to lighten the situation.

Couson nodded slowly. "I see. Mr. Barton--"

"Clint, please," he said, interrupting.

"Clint," the detective said. "Since you came down here, I assume you brought the videos?"

"Yeah," he said. "Both of them."

That seemed to surprise Coulson, who cocked his head to the side. "Both?"

"Yeah, well, there's two cameras, you know, because one of them came with the place," Clint explained. "It's old school, VHS--real shitty quality. So Tasha and I put in a good one, records to DVDs." Clint reached into his jacket and removed both the video cassette and the disc. "These are from last night." He shrugged. "I hope they'll help."

Coulson smiled, a genuine expression that softened his face and made Clint's heart speed up. "Clint," he said, leaning forward, and oh, fuck, Clint was in trouble now, because the man's voice was like silk, "thank you for bringing these in."

Clint nodded and licked his lips, feeling a small thrill as the man's eyes tracked the movement. "We gotta live here too, you know." He trailed off, at a loss.

"It's always good when business owners take an interest in their neighborhoods," Coulson said, leaning back into his chair..

"Yeah, I guess." Clint swallowed, and looked at the floor. "So, do you live here, too? Investigating your own neighbors and all that?" he joked.

"Yeah, I've got a one-bedroom on Lexington," he answered, his lips quirking up in a grin. "I don't spend too much time there, though; my poor dieffenbachia is nearly dead whenever I manage to make it home. Murder waits for no man. Or plant, as it were," Coulson amended.

"Are there a lot of those in Bed-Stuy?" Clint asked, curious despite himself.

"Plants?" Coulson asked, teasing.

Clint rolled his eyes, but couldn't keep his lips from quirking up in a grin. "You know what I mean."

"Enough to keep us busy," Coulson answered. "Being a homicide detective isn't as glamorous as TV makes it seem, you know. It's mostly knocking on doors and knowing the right questions to ask the right people. And being able to tell when someone is lying," he added with a grin of his own.

"Yeah, I bet that last one comes in handy," Clint said with a chuckle. The pair fell into silence, and Clint found himself glancing at the detective's hands. They were broad and strong, with neatly trimmed nails and no wedding ring. "So, uh, Detective--"

"Phil," he said. "It's only fair."

Clint swallowed and forced himself to meet his eyes. "Phil. You should come by the bar sometime. I'll buy you a beer."

Phil's slow smile made Clint's stomach clench with want. "I'd love to."

\--

"Oh my god, I can't believe you got a _date_ with that detective!" Kate said when Clint returned to The Big Top and told them what had happened.

"It's not a date," he mumbled rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding everyone's eyes.

Natasha rolled her eyes and Bucky laughed at him. "You're a worse liar than Steve, Christ. Nat, please tell me you're not going to let him pick out his own clothes."

Kate snorted and didn't even try to hide her laughter when Clint glared at her. "What? You have terrible fashion sense. Half your wardrobe is purple--"

"I happen to like purple--"

"--and the other half looks like it came straight out of 'I Love the 80s,' and those were bad looks _then_."

He turned to Natasha with a pout. "You're not going to let her get away with that, are you?"

Natasha arched an eyebrow at him, then turned to Kate. "Kate, you're wrong," she said, but before Clint could celebrate his victory, she continued, "there's several items that are purple _and_ terribly out of date."

"You're all fired," Clint muttered.

Bucky laughed. "Nat owns half the place, Kate doesn't work here, and you couldn't run this place without me. Get over yourself, Barton, and go put on something current and not purple."

Despite a few more grumbles, Clint and Natasha climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment they shared. "I can't believe you don't trust me to pick out my own clothes," he complained as she headed for his closet, leaving him to flop dejectedly on the bed.

Natasha didn't answer, just continued to study his shirts.

"So you're going on a date with the detective," she said finally, her tone unreadable.

Clint sat up slowly and looked down at his hands. "He's not--" He sighed. "Listen, it's not-- Okay, it's kind of a date," he admitted, when Natasha turned around to glare at him. "I know neither of us has exactly had what you would call 'good experiences' with the police, but... I dunno, Nat. This guy, he feels different." He rubbed the back of his neck. "He's not like the rest."

She didn't answer, just stiffly stared into his closet.

He stood and closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. After a moment, she relaxed and leaned back into him. "I'm a big boy, Natasha. I can take care of myself."

She sighed. "Clint, we both know that's not true."

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "It'll be okay, I promise. If he breaks my _poor widdle heart_ , I'll kill him myself."

"With your stick and string from the paleolithic era?" she asked, and Clint could hear the smile in her voice.

"Hey, I _am_ the greatest marksman ever. It said so on all my posters. 'The Amazing Hawkeye,'" he said, waving his hand above their heads to indicate an invisible marquee. "'Incredible feats of daring and accuracy! See him leap from fantastic heights and never miss a bullseye!'"

"You're a dork," she said, spinning around so she could punch him in the arm.

"Ow," he whined, rubbing the spot. "That wasn't nice. I'll have to tell my nice new cop friend my girlfriend is abusive." Natasha stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to the closet, deftly sorting through his closet again.

"I suppose this will have to do," she said, pulling out a black button-down that still had the tags attached. "Wear a blue tee shirt underneath, to bring our your eyes, and a pair of jeans that don't have any holes."

"I don't think I have a pair of jeans that don't have any holes," Clint said, wrinkling his nose at the shirt. "And where did this come from?"

"Kate got it for you for Christmas. Pretend like you remember that when you come downstairs. After you shower," Natasha said, shooing him toward the bathroom. "And don't you dare use my shampoo again; it's imported."

"Imported from Chinatown," he called at her back as she retreated downstairs.

Natasha waved her hand at him, but didn't bother to turn around.

\--

When Clint padded down the stairs an hour and a half later, his hair still damp with styling gel--stolen from Natasha, of course--Phil was already seated at the bar, chatting animatedly with Bucky. Clint stifled an automatic surge of jealousy at the obvious flirting; Bucky was stupidly in love with Rogers, and flirting with the customers was practically a job requirement. It wasn't personal, and besides, he scolded himself, this wasn't a date.

"Hey," he said, keeping his voice casual as he approached.

Phil turned to him, and Clint couldn't help but feel pleased at the way his eyes widened as he looked Clint over. "Hey yourself," Phil said.

Clint was absolutely _not_ going to go a googly-eyed and stupid over a not-date, even if said not-date looked fantastic. The top two buttons of Phil's dark green shirt were open, exposing the strong line of his throat, and the color made his eyes look even bluer. Like Clint, he was wearing jeans, but his were a crisp navy that hugged the muscles of his thighs and made Clint itch to touch them. Instead, he settled himself onto the stool next to Phil and turned to Bucky. "Barnes, I see you've met Detective Coulson," he said, pointedly ignoring Bucky's knowing smirk.

"Yeah, Phil and I have been chatting a bit," he said, leaning back against the counter casually. "Turns out he's a big fan of one Steven Rogers. Small world, huh?"

Clint arched an eyebrow at Phil, whose cheeks had gone pink. "I mentioned to your bartender here that my favorite artist's studio was in this neighborhood. He let me wax poetic for quite a while before mentioning that he was dating that particular artist, and has been for some time," he said, picking absently at the label of his beer and avoiding Clint's eyes.

"Yeah, well, Bucky's an ass like that," Clint said, causing Phil to look up and give him a sheepish grin. "He's also about to be fired if he doesn't get me a beer."

"You only wish you could get rid of me so easily," Bucky retorted, even as he reached into one of the coolers for Clint's favorite IPA. He popped the cap and slid it across the scarred bartop, then moved off to talk to another patron with a sly wink at Clint.

Clint took a sip of his beer, eyeing Phil over the lip of the bottle. "So," he asked after a moment, "how long did he let you go on about Steve before he told you?"

Phil's blush, which had receded during Clint and Bucky's banter, flared to life again. "Too long," he muttered. "God, I probably sounded like an idiot. I was telling him all about the parallels between Rogers' portraits of modern New Yorkers and the art from the Depression, and how that ties into everyday heroism. And the 'scarred soldier' he always paints? I was _talking to him_."

"Yeah, Bucky looks a lot better when Steve blurs his face out than he does in real life," Clint said. "Don't worry about it," he added, elbowing Phil gently.

"I'll try to let it go," Phil said with a soft chuckle. He turned on his stool, nudging Clint's knees with his own. "So, why'd you call this place The Big Top?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "You're really going to tell me you didn't look me up in your cop database?"

Phil shrugged. "I didn't say that. But it's not the same thing."

"No, it's not," he said, pressing his palms flat on the bar and spreading his fingers. "I ran away and joined the circus when I was a kid. I was billed as the Amazing Hawkeye: archery, trickshots, knife-throwing, acrobatics, the whole works. It was...an interesting way to grow up," he said, hedging. Phil just nodded and knocked their knees together again. "But circuses aren't all the rage anymore, and it went out of business. So I came to New York, met Natasha, and when we got this place together, it seemed to fit." He shrugged. "Not as interesting a story as you'd hoped, I'm sure."

"Well, it did have a circus, and, I assume, elephants and tigers, so it's pretty interesting to me," Phil said with a small smile.

"No tigers," Clint corrected, "but we did have one elephant, a sweet old girl named Gertie. She was like a big dog, following her trainer around everywhere." His smile fell. "Her death was pretty much what killed the circus."

"I'm sorry," Phil said, and it really felt like he meant it.

"Yeah, well, it's not like we were rolling in the dough before," he said, brushing off the concern. "Just the straw that broke the camel's back." Clint licked his lips. "So what about you?"

"You mean did I grow up in a circus with a pet elephant?" he teased.

Clint rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

Phil laughed. "Let's see... I was born and raised in the Chicago suburbs; parents divorced; two older sisters. I joined the Army right out of high school, got into the Rangers and traveled the world, doing things the government would rather I not talk about. When I got out, my best friend from the Rangers was already here in New York, and convinced me to give the NYPD a try. Now Nick's a Deputy Chief and I'm a homicide detective in Brooklyn, but I'm not bitter," he added with a grin. "If I ever fuck up, I know people in high places."

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever need some help getting out of parking tickets," Clint said.

"Oh, parking is one area I can't control," Phil said, holding up his hands in surrender. "They rule that with an iron fist."

Clint laughed and waved to Bucky for two more beers, and before he knew it, the pair of them were well on their way to sloshed, and Phil's hand was warm against his thigh. Kate's friends had shown up, and she was holding court in one corner, fighting or flirting with Eli--Clint never could tell with those two--but kept sending questioning looks his way. He rolled his eyes and finally stuck his tongue out at her, which she returned with equal childishness.

"Wow, you are something else, Clint Barton," Phil said, and Clint turned back to him, a defensive retort on the tip of his tongue. But instead of censure or annoyance at seeing a grown man act like a kid, Phil's smile was warm, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and something far more potent, and god _damn_ if it didn't kick Clint right in the gut.

He licked his lips, and leaned forward, bracing one hand on the bar and the other on Phil's knee. "Yeah, well, you too," he said, and pressed a soft kiss against Phil's open mouth. Clint could taste the beer they'd both been drinking as he swallowed Phil's short gasp of surprise, then slipped his tongue past Phil's soft lips. Phil's right hand moved up to cover Clint's on his leg, twining their fingers together as he deepened the kiss. Clint whimpered at the feel of Phil's stubble rasping against his own as Phil bit down lightly on Clint's bottom lip.

"Oh my god, get a _room _," Kate yelled, startling Clint into pulling away from Phil.__

__"Katie, you are so fired," Clint muttered._ _

__"I don't work for you," she shot back._ _

__Phil chuckled and pressed his forehead against Clint's, squeezing their entwined fingers. "I probably should get going," he said, reluctance obvious in his voice._ _

__"You could... you could come upstairs?" Clint offered, nudging Phil's cheek with his nose. "Go home in the morning."_ _

__Phil's groan sounded pained. "I want to, I really, really do." He leaned in and brushed their lips together. "I want to see you again."_ _

__"Yes," Clint answered, almost ashamed at how fast the word fell from his mouth. "Yeah, definitely."_ _

__"I'll call you. Tomorrow?"_ _

__"Yeah, tomorrow," Clint said, stealing another quick kiss. "Now get out of here before I go all caveman and drag you upstairs with me."_ _

__After a few more quick kisses and catcalls from the peanut gallery, Phil managed to make it out the door. While Clint watched him leave, feeling like a stupidly love-sick teenager, Natasha slid onto the stool next to him. "You two look good together."_ _

__"Thanks, Nat," he said._ _

__"Think he'll call?"_ _

__Clint nodded, eyes flitting back to the door Phil had just walked through. "Yeah, I do."_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The NYPD precincts that serve the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn are (according to [their website](http://www.nyc.gov/html/nypd/html/precinct_maps/precinct_finder.shtml)) are the 79th, the 81st, and a smidge of the 73rd. I am not a police officer, and most of my law enforcement knowledge comes from far too many viewings of Law & Order.


End file.
